I bought a lamp on the weekend, which is the size of a small child. One and half years of unrequited love for this lamp, and last week I was driving by the store and saw they were shutting their business. Only a few lamps left, including the mother of mothers. After assuring the owner that I would have space for it (I don't really), and a relatively modest exchange of cash, it came home with me. For the last time. A beacon of light during the darkest days of the year, a week before the winter solstice. When I stumble to the kitchen in the dark at 6am, I put this light on, and I feel warm and safe, bare feet on the camp floor rugs. A drift of the souk in my dining room, I want to hum and listen to sufi music, call and refrain, light hands on a doumbek, sink into the dark with my coffee, and watch the light patterns on the ceiling. Morning, morning, remember? Music off, CBC on, suduko puzzle in hand, light grows, lamp off, day begins.